BOOKS @ VOLUME #225 (16.4.21)
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Haruki Murakami's new book of short stories, First Person Singular, is our Book of the Week this week. All told in the first person by a classic Murakami narrator, these stories challenge the boundaries between our minds and the exterior world. Occasionally, a narrator may or may not be Murakami himself.
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She-Merchants, Buccaneers and Gentlewomen: British women in India, 1600—1900 by Katie Hickman {Reviewed by STELLA} There have been plenty of histories about the British in India, but Katie Hickman’s She-Merchants, Buccaneers & Gentlewomen takes a slightly different tack. It starts earlier (the focus being the late 1700s and the first half of the nineteenth century), with the very first few women to venture forth on the long and perilous sea journey. Some were accompanying husbands, others were mistresses of recalcitrant aristocrats, and yet others, women of daring, saw an opportunity in trade in the early days of the East India Company. It also has a female focus, drawing on the letters, diaries and reminiscences of these women. While Hickman does mention the orphans and lower-class women sent to bolster the female numbers in this male-centric military society, the records are few and far between for these less literate classes. So, aside from the past prostitutes/mistresses (many of whom were mixing with the upper classes and as such knew the benefits of brushing up on their letters) now posing as gentlewomen, our stories are firmly fixed in the middle classes and gentry categories. As with many colonial histories, it is the early years that seem more flexible, with marriages of military soldiers (although most often the Indian wives were abandoned, usually with their children, when their supposed husbands left) and officers to Indian women and a few British women in relationships with local men. Not surprisingly this was not necessarily what society back home wished for. A policy was employed to encourage more women, ostensibly to become wives to the increasing number of British troops and civil servants, to travel to India as colonisation ramped up. Hickman sticks with the accounts of daily life, the routines of British society increasingly transplanted (even when they were nonsensical), and the long overland journeys that many women made—some following their military husbands when they were sent to a new posting; others venturing out alone (with servants and the occasional lover), wishing to escape their husbands and the confines of British society. The accounts of great entourages (hundreds of animals—elephants, horses—and thousands of people—servants and soldiers) larger than many of the villages they passed by seems strange now, but was a reality of the aristocratic travellers making their mark on this place. Power and pomp. Hickman recounts the 1875 uprising near the end of her book, signposting the reasons it happened obliquely, rather than head-on, laying out the attitudes of the women through their letters, comments and memoirs. The viewpoint of the rebellion is clearly from the women who were hunkered down in (often inadequate) fortresses under great distress or who narrowly escaped death. Yet it is here that you clearly see the sticky problem—while these women as individuals were diverse in their attitudes, social positions and enlightenment (or not), some of them admirable (many not), they were nevertheless all part of the wider project of colonisation. She-Merchants, Buccaneers & Gentlewomen is a fascinating look at the individual accounts of women—there are plenty of intriguing tales, both troublesome and diverting—who ventured to India in this period, but it will raise more questions about the role of these women and the imprint they may have left than are answered here. |
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![]() | Motherhood by Sheila Heti {Reviewed by THOMAS} Is flipping coins to determine answers to questions posed by the flipper of the coins a good way to guide your life? no Is flipping coins to determine answers to questions posed by the flipper of the coins a good way to write a book? no But isn’t this book, Motherhood, which has been written by flipping coins to determine the answers to questions posed by the flipper of the coins, in this case Sheila Heti, the author of the book, a good book? yes Is Motherhood a good book, then, because it was written by Sheila Heti rather than because it was written by flipping coins? yes When Sheila—the Sheila who is a character in the book, which the reader is permitted to assume is the same person (whatever that means) as Sheila Heti the author of the book— says, “I don’t think I have a heart—a heart I can consult. Instead, I have these coins,” is that a good way for either the character in the book or the author of the book to proceed? no Is flipping coins to determine the answers to questions posed by the flipper of the coins a good way to write a review of a book that has been written by flipping coins to determine the answers to questions posed by the author? no If I wrote a review in such a way, would I be able to do it without cheating, in other words, without only pretending that I had flipped coins when I had not actually flipped coins at all, or flipping the coins but then overriding the outcomes of those coins if they did not suit me? no Would it be better if I didn’t waste time looking for coins to flip, then? yes And Sheila Heti, can I be sure that she didn’t cheat when writing a book by flipping coins to determine the answers to questions she posed? no Does this matter? no In fact, might this not be a good way to compose a novel or somesuch, or find a way out of writer’s block, whatever that is, or determine a way out of any predicament, at least any fictional predicament, given that predicaments usually arise from the presence of binaries—either A or not-A, for example—and so seem to clamour for a resolution that can be expressed in a binary way? yes Just as writing conversation can be a good way to find a way out of writer’s block, whatever that is, even writer’s block visited upon the writing of a book review? yes Even if one side of the conversation says only either yes or no? yes Are the results I might achieve this way satisfactory? no Would the results be satisfactory with a different approach? no Is any of this useful in so-called real life? no But doesn’t Sheila Heti apply this approach to the real-life question—if we accept that the Sheila of the book corresponds to the real-life Sheila, the book’s author—of whether or not she wants to or should have a child, or become a mother, which may or may not imply having a child, depending on how subtly the concept of motherhood is understood or defined? yes So this approach is not useful? no You mean it is useful? yes Can you explain that? no Can Sheila Heti explain that? yes Does she do so in this passage, when she consults her coins? “Is any of the above true? no Is there any use in any of this, if none of it is true? no Even if you said yes, it wouldn’t matter. You don’t mean anything to me. You don’t know the future, and you don’t know anything about my life, or what I should be doing. You are complete randomness, without meaning. [However] you have shown me some good things, but that is just me picking up the good in all the nothing you have shown me.” yes As Sheila approaches forty she suffers from ambivalence about whether or not to have a child before it is ‘too late’. She can’t seem to disentangle what might be the expectations of her by others because she is a woman from what might be her biological inclinations as a woman, not that this concept necessarily has any validity, and from her own personal expectations and inclinations. Is it even possible to disentangle these things? no Would it be true to say that the more you think about things in these terms the less sense these terms make? yes Is there any point in thinking about things in these terms? no Unless, perhaps, it is useful to get to the point at which these terms make no sense? yes Does Sheila obsess over the question of whether or not to have a child as a way of relieving herself of the question of whether or not to have a child? yes A way of avoiding having a child, even? yes Saying yes to having a child would remove the uncertainty of whether or not to have a child and the uncertainty could not be regained, at least not in that form, but saying no merely provides the opportunity for the uncertainty to resurge at the next possible moment for it to be considered. Prevarication is, therefore, such a tiring prophylactic. Is the book to some extent somehow about the deep problems of decision-making, in whatever sphere of life, about whether we can disentangle the force of what we might call ‘will’ from the force of what we might, for want of a better word, call ‘fate’ (‘determinism’ is probably a better word)? yes When Sheila says, “Sometimes I am convinced that a child will add depth to all things—just bring a background of depth and meaning to whatever it is I do. I also think I might have brain cancer. There’s something I can feel in my brain, like a finger pressing down,” is her problem really about depth and meaning rather than about having a child? yes Sheila says, “This will be a book to prevent future tears.” Is this book, Motherhood, perhaps more about depression—Sheila’s, her mother’s, perhaps the reader’s—than it is about motherhood per se? no Sheila says, “I am a blight on my own life.” She says, “Nothing harms the earth more than another person—and nothing harms a person more than being born.” She says, thinking of her decision to be a writer and all the time she has consequently spent arranging commas, “When I was younger, writing felt like more than enough, but now I feel like a drug addict, like I’m missing out on life.” Is there a sense in which writing and ‘living’ are incompatible modes of existence? yes When Sheila states that resisting urges has previously led her to more interesting places, is it useful for her to think about resisting the urge to have a child—wherever that urge originates—as a way of bringing depth and meaning to her life? yes Does she in fact find more depth and meaning by resisting the urge to have a child? yes Does this depth and meaning, or at least the finding of more depth and meaning if not the depth and meaning themselves, have some sort of tangible expression? yes This book? yes Early in the book, Heti identifies her struggles with the mythic struggles of Jacob wrestling with and withstanding the unknown being “until the breaking of the day,” and she concludes the book an altered quote from the Torah: “Then I named this wrestling-place Motherhood, for here is where I saw God face-to-face, and yet my life was spared.” Is that a satisfactory way to end the book? yes Is that a satisfactory way to end my review? no Should I go on? no |
NEW RELEASES
First Person Singular by Haruki Murakami $45
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A Burning by Megha Majumdar {Reviewed by STELLA} Writing a comment on Facebook could land you in a whole heap of trouble. Particularly if you are young, Muslim, female, and poor. Jivan lives in the slums of Kolkata. She’s been lucky: attended school as a charity case, passed her year 10 exams (just) and now has a job in a department store. Saving up her meagre wages, she has just got herself a shiny new phone. When a shocking incident happens at the train station near her home, she is horrified not only by the actions of the terrorists but also by the inaction of the police. It is her criticism of the police on the social media platform and the subsequent reactions from others that cause the perfect storm. A storm that puts her firmly in the view of the authorities. Arrested as an accomplice on the flimsiest of grounds, Jivan finds herself in a precarious position attempting to prove her innocence. With a public braying for someone to blame, the police wanting a criminal, and a political election in the midst of it all, the situation easily escalates. Jivan’s hopes lie with the testimonies of two people. PT Sir, her former PE teacher at the girl’s school, and Lovely, a hijra, who she had been teaching English. These character references could make a difference and get her out from behind bars. Yet, as you can imagine, Megha Majumdar’s debut novel, won’t let Jivan off the hook so easily, nor release PT Sir and Lovely, each of whom have their own issues to deal with, from some difficult dilemmas. This is a story of injustice, corruption, kickbacks, political expediency, and social positioning told with a forcefulness (not surprisingly, Majumdar’s novel has been met with both praise and criticism in India) and an observant eye. It’s emotionally charged, as well as subtly wry. The small descriptive moments carry weight without being heavy. The stories of the three main characters in this moral tale are all compelling and the interplay between the perspectives keeps you engaged in all, not just one of them. From Jivan’s experience in jail and with her lawyer and her internal hopes and disappointments to Lovely’s dream to be an actress, her ‘family’ of friends as they navigate begging on the street, entertaining and blessing newborns or the newly wed for a small fee, to PT Sir’s ambition for a sense of importance (to be noticed) and a better life, we are given a microcosmic view of the dilemmas, ironies and inequalities of this city with its class systems, extreme poverty, rising middle class, cultural complexities and political machinations. With comparisons to Jhumpa Lahiri and Yaa Gyasi in reviews, A Burning is a worthy contender for the praise. It also brought to mind Kamila Shamsie’s Home Fire in style and content. Powerful and unsettling. |
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![]() | The Cemetery at Barnes by Gabriel Josipovici {Reviewed by THOMAS} Meaning, in literature as in life, is to be found in its form rather than in its content. This subtly disconcerting novella, told almost entirely in the habitual past tense (“he would”, “he used to”), portrays how memory works as an endlessly repeated palimpsest, constantly erasing and overwriting the impress of actual events, at the same time and by the same procedure both providing and preventing access to the past. The tension between what is erased and what cannot be erased intensifies through the novella, which assembles its layers of narration as if gleaned from conversation by a guest in the house in Wales of a translator and his wife, but somehow at the same time providing access to the private thoughts and self-narratives of the translator. Josipovici’s lightness and fluidity moving between speech, reported speech and thought, and his remarkable ability to encompass many versions of a story in one text, is alluded to by the translator as we learn of his fantasies of drowning himself in the Seine after he moved to Paris following the death of his first wife: “He knew such feelings were neurotic, dangerous even, but he was not unduly worried, sensing that it was better to indulge them than to try and eliminate them altogether. After all, everyone has fantasies. In the one life there are many lives. Alternative lives. Some are lived and others imagined. That is the absurdity of biographies, he would say, of novels. They never take account of the alternative lives casting their shadows over us as we move slowly, as though in a dream, from birth to maturity to death.” It is the death of the translator’s first wife that the text constantly attempts to avoid but toward which it is constantly pulled. The translator takes refuge in the stories of others to provide relief from his own. “It was only when the meaning of what he was translating began to seep through to him, he said, that he found it difficult.” After her death he moves from London to Paris, experiences detachment and detachment from detachment. “Sometimes, as he was walking through the Parisian streets, he would suddenly be seized with the feeling that he was not there, that all this was still in the future or else in the distant past. He would examine this feeling with detachment, as if it belonged to someone else, and then walk on.” Some experiences leave a wound, however, that is not easily erased, or which one is too attached to to erase, such as the wound on the thigh the narrator receives during an encounter with a young woman in a beret about whom little else has been retained. “We’ve all got something like that somewhere on our bodies. Maybe if we got rid of it we wouldn’t be ourselves any more.” Moments of the past sit with specific sharpness in the generalisation of the habitual past tense narration which seeks but fails to erase them, to keep the narrator functioning at the cost of the events makes him himself. “Listen to him, [his second wife] would say. He never sticks to the subject but always manages to generalise. It’s another way of avoiding life.” But the unspeakable pulls so hard upon the narrative that does not speak of it that that narrative becomes patterned entirely by that which it does not represent. “There are times when the order you have so carefully established seems suddenly unable to protect you from the darkness.” The unassimilable specifics of the circumstances of his first wife’s death start to show through, and our suspicions are both intensified and undermined by the means by which we form them. We are left, as is the translator, in the words of a poem by du Bellay that he translates, “at the mercy of the winds, / Sitting at the tiller in a ship full of holes.” |
NEW RELEASES
Devil's Trumpet by Tracey Slaughter $30
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Flavour by Yotam Ottolenghi and Ixta Belphrage {Reviewed by STELLA} Just when you think you have enough Ottolenghi books you are proven incorrect. Last year, as a result of some housekeeping and rearranging at home, the cookbooks ended up on their own bank of shelves in the kitchen rather than scattered between several shelves throughout the house. Result—a good collection of Ottolenghi cookbooks. The most well-used—the excellent Plenty and Plenty More. That combination of Mediterranean and Middle Eastern with a splash of other cuisine influences seems to suit my style of cooking, vegetable preferences and taste buds. The recipes place ingredients with each other in ways I had previously not considered. So when Flavour turned up last year, I really did have to question another Ottolenghi. But this one, another focused on vegetables, feels quite different from the previous books. Produced in concert with chef Ixta Belfrage, it plays with combinations of spices, herbs and those all-important salts, acids and heat in exciting and accessible ways. There’s plenty of text and asides from the recipes to keep the thinking cook happy, but again the focus is on the recipes. There is more Asian influence here, with soy and miso featuring, but the core remains Ottolenghi’s favourite Middle Eastern participants. A few new spices are featuring in our kitchen cupboard—harissa has become a constant on the shopping list. There’s plenty to enjoy here. The Aubergine Dumplings Alla Parmiginia tasted as good as they looked. They reminded me of the softness and full flavour of my father’s Greek-influenced meatballs (I don’t eat the meat any more, so aubergine is a great substitute). The Bkeila, Potato and Butter Bean Stew is delicious and super comfort food with a tang! The cooking down of the spinach into its concentrated form is quite remarkable and one would think unappealing. Absolutely not. And the tangy lemon and spice mix makes this recipe a wonder. The Portobello Steaks and Butter Bean Mash—just delicious, retaining all that is delightful about mushrooms with very tasty spices and olive oil all layered over the calming bean mash. Perfect for brunch or a late evening meal when you’ve had a busy day. And what if you get given a cabbage or two—not the most exciting vegetable (apologies to cabbage-lovers)? Cabbage with Ginger Cream and Numbing Oil, of course! This is perfectly cooked cabbage with lashings of cream cheese (gingered) and that Numbing Oil—wow!—chilli, ginger, star anise and more chilli. Scoop it up and enjoy. And this I think is the rationale of Flavour. It’s fulsome and enjoyable—all about sharing food together and exploring with your taste buds. And coming later this year is a new Ottolenghi. Test Kitchen will take you on a journey through your kitchen cupboards, celebrating humble ingredients and embracing the concept of flexible cooking. You can order this now. In the meantime, explore the Ottolenghi choices on our shelves (or due back in soon). |
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![]() | This Little Art by Kate Briggs {Reviewed by THOMAS} A translator interposes themselves invisibly (or quasi-invisibly (invisible by convention)) between the author of a text, for whom the translator stands in the position of a reader, and the reader of that text, for whom the translator stands in the position of the author. The translator negotiates the text on behalf of a reader whose language is not that of the author, and adds, for the eventual reader, another layer in the suspension of disbelief in their willingness to accept that the words of the translator *are* the words of the author while at the same time acknowledging that they are entirely different words in a different language. To translate, in the words of Kate Briggs in her fine, thoughtful work on translation, “complicates the authorial position, sharing it, usurping it, sort of dislocating it.” Although the translator aspires to invisibility as a remaker of text, translators are not, and should not be considered as, by themselves or by others, “neutral, impersonal transferring devices.” The remaking of text in the person of the translator refracts both in their capacities as a reader and as a writer. “I read with my body,” says Briggs. “I read and move to translate with my body, and my body is not the same as yours. Translation is a responsive and appropriative practising of an extant work at the level of the sentence, working it out, a work-out on the basis of the desired work whose energy source is the inclusion of the new and different vitality that comes with and from me.” Translation is the most intimate possible relationship between two persons, though one of those persons may well be unaware of this intimacy. The translator assumes responsibility not only for the words and intentions of the author, but also for their identity as an author, at least in so far as the readers in the host language are concerned. The translator *becomes* the author for those readers. Or, rather, translation is the most intimate possible relationship between three people, for the willingness of a reader to allow the subsuming of their awareness by the author is replicated in the translator-as-reader who must concurrently become the translator-as-author for the host language reader. Briggs describes the relationship she has with Roland Barthes, whose ‘Le Préparation du Roman’ she is translating as ‘The Preparation of the Novel’, and, indeed there are passages in her account in which the identities of the two elide and it is uncertain whose words, and whose ideas, are on the page. Briggs sees the role of the translator as to *identify* with the author, rather than to supplant, or to be compared with, the author. The translator “undertakes to write translations not as a means to demonstrate their expertise but precisely because they know, without knowing exactly how or in what particular ways, doing so will be productive of *new* knowledge.” The constraint of the extant text liberates the translator-as-writer from the perils of self-expression and the impediments to discovery imposed by one’s identity. To express oneself lies within one’s capabilities and is a fundamentally reductive procedure. Only constraints will lead a writer beyond safe territory, and the constraints of an extant text can lead a translator-as-writer to new discoveries about language and about the limits and potentials of praxis of both writing and reading. “Don’t all writing projects,” Briggs asks, “involve working within existing rules and parameters that guide and to some degree direct what is possible to write? All writing is to some greater or lesser extent determined by constraints. The constraints on how far I can go, the limits on my making-up, the limits on doing what I want, are what interest me. They interest me because they instruct me, leading me (forcing me?) outside of what I might already be capable of writing, knowing and imagining. I don’t want to just make something up.” An effective way to make without making up is to remake. Praxis without ego reveals much about the mechanisms of personhood, so to call it, readership, authorship, and about the mechanisms of language that give rise to these roles of praxis. A translation is a product of its time can be replaced by new translations, more in keeping with the times of new readers, perhaps, in the way that the original cannot be so renewed or updated. An original text goes on being the original text. For someone to write it again in the original language is generally considered a crime against the text (except perhaps when the rewriting is so different from the original as to constitute a commentary or a riff upon it). A translation can be remade without affecting the authenticity of the work. Does this suggest that translation is more akin to reading than to writing (as in the generation of texts), in that the text is fulfilled in an interchangeable other? Is all reading in effect, in any case, a translation from the language of the text’s composition to the language of the reader’s comprehension, even though those languages are ostensibly the *same* language? Is an interlingual translator nothing more (and nothing less) than a textual vector, broadening the scope of the writing/reading project performed by persons whose intimacy is entirely inherent in this vector? In this respect, translation should be considered to take its risks on criteria of soundness and comeliness, rather than on criteria of exactitude or goodness. “My work is fascinating and derivative and determining and necessary and suspect,” says Briggs. “It is everywhere taken for granted and then every so often [inappropriately] singled out to be piously congratulated or taken apart.” |